


Sweetest Downfall

by BiscuitsForPotter



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Betrayal, But mostly angst, Death Eater Draco Malfoy, Double Life, Enemies to Lovers, Espionage, F/M, Fluff and Angst, Grey Hermione Granger, Hermione is a spy, Morally Ambiguous Character, Pregnancy, Second War with Voldemort, post-partum depression, this isn't a happy story
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-15
Updated: 2020-02-02
Packaged: 2021-02-27 07:13:30
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 20,065
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22263151
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BiscuitsForPotter/pseuds/BiscuitsForPotter
Summary: Seven years after the war began, Hermione is sent on a mission to take down one of the greatest threats to the Order. Rumor has it that this threat has some sort of special power that has made him unbeatable in a duel. Hermione's orders? Find the source of his power and destroy it. Based on a dark interpretation of Samson and Delilah; Written for TheMouringMadam's Where Gods Dwell Fest.
Relationships: Hermione Granger/Draco Malfoy
Comments: 32
Kudos: 132
Collections: Where Gods Dwell: A Dramione Fest





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This story was inspired by a dark interpretation of the biblical story of Samson and Delilah. While there's some fluff in here, there's a lot of angst and a version of Hermione that may not be some peoples' cup of tea. 
> 
> This story has three pre-written chapters.
> 
> Infinite thanks to GracefulLioness and MsMerlin for Alpha/Beta work.

Hermione sat on a precipice, teetering on the verge of inevitability. How had it come to this? How had her life taken this turn? 

Of course, she knew precisely what led her to this exact moment—a moment bathed in inevitability and pale moonlight. She had done years of waiting, planning, and plotting. She had sat in this exact spot countless times before. She had watched him sleep countless times—startled from the stressful dreams that so often filled her head at night, she took comfort in watching him breathe. Even now, her eyes were drawn to his bare chest as it rose and fell every few seconds in the soft rhythm of sleep’s embrace.

Her husband had no idea that she would watch him slumber during her sleepless nights. He always woke each morning completely unaware of her restlessness and the tormented thoughts raging in her head. 

There was a lot that her husband didn’t know. That he wasn’t aware of. Because yes, they were husband and wife, but their relationship was so much more complicated than that. It was far more misleading than her husband could imagine. 

Hermione adjusted her posture as she sat poised on the edge of her bed with its crisp, white sheets. In her hand, she fiddled with her wand, a nervous tic she had developed years ago that she never could shake. 

After all, it had been years ago that this whole farce of a life had begun. 

~*~*~*~

“Granger, I’d like to see you alone,” Kingsley muttered to her at the end of another depressing Order meeting. 

For nearly seven years now, the world had been at war. Thousands of innocent people, magical and Muggle alike, had been caught in the crossfire. Kingsley Shacklebolt ran the Order of the Phoenix with as much courage and conviction that he could muster, but years of fighting were beginning to show. Scars criss-crossed his hands and deep lines grew across his face. He may have been battle-worn, but the people still trusted him. The Order trusted him. Most importantly, Hermione trusted him. 

She nodded and followed him past the long table where Order members were still lingering, discussing their latest plans in hushed tones. No one was in a rush to leave. Hermione wasn’t particularly surprised. What with the gloomy February sky that hung just outside and the permanent stench of death that constantly seemed to permeate the air these days, no one was keen to go home. 

Hermione filed past her friends—Ginny, Neville, and George—toward a back room that Kingsley used as a makeshift office. Some of her other friends, Ron and Harry included, were out in the field. Others, like Luna, were dead. The war had brought on many changes as it raged on around them—through them—and the deaths of so many friends and acquaintances was always what gave Hermione the most pause. 

But year after year of watching friends die or go missing, of saying goodbye to people and not knowing if she would ever see them again, of waiting for the inevitability of her own demise, she had gone numb. Her body still carried her forward, but her mind had detached long ago from the notion that her life might ever carry some semblance of normalcy. 

After closing and warding the door, Kingsley moved a few dusty books from the chair on the far side of his desk and motioned for Hermione to take a seat. 

“What can I do for you, sir?” she asked after seating herself on the edge of the musty chair. 

The older man leaned forward, placing his elbows on the desk and and clasping his hands together. “I have a mission for you.”

Hermione didn’t blink. “I was expecting as much. What details can you give me?” 

“This mission is unlike anything you have been assigned in the past. In fact, it is unlike any mission assigned to anyone before now.” 

This was of no surprise. Hermione was often called upon for unusual missions—ones with problems that others couldn't quite figure out, ones that involved more cunning than wand waving. She raised her eyebrows. "You've... piqued my interest. Go on.” 

Kingsley cleared his throat. “As you know, there is a hierarchy among You-Know-Who’s followers. The greater your power, the more You-Know-Who places his trust in you.” 

Hermione nodded along, but kept her mouth closed. Kingsley continued. 

“His most trusted Death Eater is a powerful wizard. So powerful, in fact, that none of our members have ever survived a duel with him.” 

“And do you expect me to join that list?” Hermione scoffed, crossing her legs and leaning back in the chair. 

KIngsley frowned. “Not at all, Miss Granger. The fact is, we need to know why he is so powerful. Until about two years ago, he was low in the ranks. An unknown, really. Then suddenly, he climbed to the top. We don’t know if he’s drinking a special potion or under the Imperius Curse. He’s able to do things that a normal wizard shouldn’t. He’s killed countless people, magical and Muggle, and needs to be taken down.”

“Just so we’re clear,” said Hermione, leaning forward so her elbows rested on her knees as she stared at Kingsley, “We’re talking about Draco Malfoy, correct?” 

“The very same.” 

Hermione grunted, lips turned downward. 

“I see.” 

Hermione’s eyes drifted away from Kingsley for a moment as she let her mind wander back to a place it didn’t venture too often—Hogwarts. She hadn’t seen Draco since her Hogwarts days. Not really, anyway. She had seen his name and face in  _ The Daily Prophet _ as well as on Wanted posters. She had heard tales of his magical prowess from scarce survivors of encounters with him. But to her, at least in his most concrete form, Draco Malfoy remained a cowardly, sneering petulant child. No matter how powerful he was rumoured to be, in her mind’s eye, he was still that transfigured, panicked ferret. 

“So what precisely would my mission be?” Her eyes re-focused on Kingsley, who hadn’t moved an inch at his desk.

“Your mission would be to act as a spy for the Order.”

“Like reconnaissance?” Hermione asked. When Kingsley didn’t reply right away, she chuckled darkly. “Clearly not, or you wouldn’t have warded the door so tightly.” 

Hermione watched the corners of Kingsley’s mouth to see if perhaps they would turn up slightly, but they didn’t budge. Not even a millimeter. 

“This mission is far more dangerous and far more exposed than any missions we have sent someone on before. It’s unclear how long it could last or the personal toll it will take on you.”

Hermione felt her stomach drop slightly as Kinglsey’s tone only grew more serious. 

“What exactly would you have me do?” 

“Gain his trust. Find the source of his power. Destroy it. And him, if you must.” 

~*~*~*~

Discretion was key in this mission, so asking around about Draco Malfoy proved to be nearly impossible. Hermione ended up resorting to Polyjuice consumption in order to eavesdrop in local pubs. It was a risky approach, yes, but this whole damn mission was risky. It took a few weeks and a handful of drunken conversations with low-level Death Eater scum, but Hermione eventually got the answers she was looking for. 

It turned out that Malfoy liked to frequent only one establishment. And he only ever made an appearance after midnight. 

“Likes to keep to himself,” one of the drunk Death Eaters had mumbled in a particularly seedy pub. “ ‘E never talks to any of us. Never talks to anyone ‘cept the Dark Lord. ‘finks ‘e’s better than the lot of us, ‘e does.” 

That suited her just fine. She’d rather not make a public mess of this job. 

Hermione began frequenting Malfoy’s preferred pub after that, but only came much earlier in the evening. From the information she could glean there, mostly from the barman, Malfoy often drank two or three tumblers of the most expensive Firewhisky and left with a woman on his arm. A different woman every time. 

That was it, then. 

Kingsley gave his curt approval in the stillness of that same back office. It seemed he wasn’t too fond of her method of choice, but he accepted it with few questions. 

She was going to seduce Draco Malfoy, not under the influence of Polyjuice, but as herself. 

He wouldn’t spill all his secrets to his stranger. But to an old acquaintance, she might stand a chance. Malfoy had always gloated about knowing the right people—in making connections. He might just loosen his tongue if she caught him in a weak moment. And her intention was to make him  _ very  _ weak, indeed. 

Hermione had long forgotten what it felt like to wear lovely clothes. Her wardrobe mainly consisted of threadbare jumpers, trousers with patches in the knees, and slightly stretched-out undergarments. But for this mission, she took her time getting dressed. An slightly-tattered shirt became a strappy black silk dress; a pair of scuffed boots turned to heels that she placed an anti-wobble charm on. And her worn knickers? Black silk. It seemed a touch superfluous for her tastes, but it wasn’t for her. It was for  _ him _ . 

She felt a strange stirring as she examined herself in the mirror. Scars hidden beneath glamours, she actually looked… normal. Like she was going out for a night on the town with her girlfriends. Or out on a date. She barked out a single, solitary laugh at the thought. How long had it been since she had gone on a date? Since something so sleek and luxurious had rippled across her skin? She allowed herself a few precious seconds to savour the feel of the fabric on her torso and against her thighs before settling her shoulders back and steeling her gaze. 

Hermione strode into The Whyte Wyvern just after midnight, head held high. She wanted to ensure he would already be there when she arrived so he couldn’t spot her in his way in and make a hasty retreat. 

Just as planned, Malfoy was there when she arrived. He was sitting at the bar, a tumbler of amber liquid held nimbly in his pale, elegant hands. The sight of his bored, haughty face instantly brought long-buried rage and pain clawing to the surface, but Hermione managed to push any sign of discomfort far below her skin. 

Hermione settled herself in plain sight in a booth directly across from Malfoy. She wanted to be seen. She wanted Malfoy to know that she wanted to be seen. Out of the corner of her eye, she noticed his body stiffen, could sense that he had his hand wrapped around his wand, clumsily stored in a pocket. 

She smirked into her drink menu. 

Malfoy continued to watch her as she ordered a gin and tonic and pulled out a novel she had stashed in her beaded bag. She had to appear harmless. Approachable. Carefully, deliberately, she shifted her body so her dress rode up her thigh ever so slightly. 

She wanted to—no— _ needed _ to get a reaction out of him. Anything to get him to come over and talk to her. 

After several long minutes of sipping her drink and pretending to read about the life of Margaret Garner, the movement of a particular blond figure caught her eye. He grew closer and closer until he slipped into the booth across from her. 

“Granger.” 

Her eyes flicked up from the pages of the book to his pale face. 

“Malfoy.” 

Hermione noticed that his hands were wrapped around a new glass, this one quite full. How many drinks had he had? Surely, he had screwed up his courage at least a little bit to come over here. 

“You’re looking surprisingly well.” Malfoy’s tone held no malice, but it was a little too casual for Hermione’s comfort. She had half expected him to spit out suspicious accusations.

Hermione raised her eyebrows. She could play polite if she wanted to. For now. “I could say the same for you.” 

Hermione watched how he sat, legs crossed, leaning backward as though relaxed. But she also saw the way his foot bobbed, a tic that gave away his unease. It was almost as if he were channeling his nerves through that movement. 

She made him uneasy. 

“What brings you here?” he asked, inclining his head slightly.

“Oh, just out for a drink.” She shrugged, trying to remain casual. Her free hand sat on her thigh, inches away from the wand hiding in a holster underneath. “Thought I could use some stress relief.” 

“Hmm.” Malfoy chuckled darkly, inclining his tumbler slightly. “I’ll drink to that.” 

The war didn’t come up as they sat together in the booth, sipping at their drinks. In fact, they hardly spoke at all as they made their way through multiple tumblers of this and that. Instead, they simply looked at each other, hardly blinking for what felt like a lifetime. Hermione sensed that Draco was sizing her up. His eyes traced her from head to toe. 

“So why are you  _ really _ here, Granger?” he drawled after almost an hour of near-silence. “Come to off me?” 

Hermione snorted slightly. “Hardly. Like I said, I came in to relieve stress. Life isn’t exactly easy these days, and I thought I could find something… someone to  _ take the edge off _ .” As she spoke, she leaned forward, letting the neckline of her dress drape low so he could get an eyeful of the tops of her breasts.

Malfoy merely blinked downward for half a second before returning to his fourth drink.

Damn. Clearly, he wouldn’t be swayed by the show of some skin or suggestive tone. She’d have to change tactics. Shifting herself back again, she sighed. 

“It just takes a lot out of you, you know? I hardly feel like the same person I was before this whole bloody war started. I hardly even remember who that person was.” Though Hermione swirled her gin and tonic around her glass and slumped in defeat, she remained keenly aware of Malfoy’s every moment. The way his own chest heaved with a sigh; how his eyes flicked to his pocket, where his wand sat. “Can you remember who you were, Malfoy?” 

He sniffed, looking stiffly at his drink. “Not really, no. I…I prefer not to remember.” 

Was that some sort of sadness in his tone? She could work with sadness. 

“I suppose that makes sense. All the things we’ve seen… all the things we’ve done… sometimes I wonder if it’s all worth it.”

Malfoy raised his head, surprise etched in his wide eyes. “Bloody hell, Granger. That’s the last thing I’d expect to come out of your mouth. Here I thought you were self-righteous about your cause.” 

Hermione drained her glass before motioning for another drink. “I still believe in  _ my cause _ , but I suppose I’m beginning to wonder if winning is worth the cost. Are we doing too much?” She paused for a moment, gathering her thoughts. She had to be very careful in her word choice in order to lure him in. She didn’t want to make him feel defensive. “I just feel so… lost. Do you know what I mean?” 

Hermione half expected Malfoy to pull his wand on her then and there. She was practically accusing him of disloyalty to his cause. If the tables were turned, she would have long grown suspicious. But he didn’t seem suspicious. Nor did he pull his wand out. Instead, he heaved a sigh and downed his Firewhisky in one shot. 

“Why do you think I came in here, Granger? Why do you think I come here as often as I can?”

“How should I know? I haven’t seen you in years,” she interjected lightly as the alcohol took control of her tongue. “To get a witch into your bed, I’d imagine. There can’t be too many appealing options at work.” 

Malfoy smirked. “Cheeky.” 

The corners of her mouth lifted. 

Malfoy cleared his throat after signaling for another glass. “I don’t know what rumours you’ve heard, but my job isn’t exactly fairy dust and pixies, Granger.”

“And what exactly  _ is _ your job?” Hermione asked innocently.

“What’s  _ yours _ ?” Malfoy countered.

“Touché.” 

The server arrived with new glasses for each of them, and they sipped for several long moments before speaking again. 

“I come to this bloody pub to escape. Just for a little bit. If I’ve got some Firewhisky in me and a woman on my bed, I can pretend, for a few hours at least, that my life hasn’t gone to utter shite.” Malfoy swirled his Firewhisky around his tumbler as he spoke, his voice growing more cynical with each word. “And by the sound of it, your life can’t be much less shittier than mine.” 

Hermione raised her glass. “To our shitty, shitty lives.” 

Malfoy’s glass joined hers, the amber liquid sloshing against the edge. “Here, here.” 

They both drank until their tumblers were empty. 

“You said you can’t remember what you were like when you were younger. Well, I can.” Malfoy set his glass down on the well-worn wooden table with a  _ thunk _ . His grey eyes bore into her chocolate ones. “You were loud and bossy. Not exactly hard to pinpoint. So tell me, Granger. Are you still loud and bossy?”

A thrill ran through Hermione, though she did her best to keep her exterior cool. She knew this was her chance to steer the conversation. 

“Depends on the context,” she answered, trying to keep her tone light. Once more, she leaned forward, exposing the expanse of skin across her chest. 

“Oh?” Malfoy raised a single eyebrow. “What context?”

“I’m certainly quiet when I need to be.” She didn’t need to elaborate. They were both living through a war. “But I’ve found that I can be quite loud when I’m feeling… inspired.” 

Hermione tucked an errant curl behind her ear and then dropped her hand down her neck, fingers catching the strap of her dress. The flimsy little thing slipped down her shoulder, exposing even more skin. She couldn’t have asked for better timing, because she watched Draco swallow, his chest moving rapidly. He licked his lips. 

“And are you still bossy, Granger?”

Hermione smirked. “I’m always bossy.  _ Always _ .” She made a point not to break eye contact as she dragged her index finger around the rim of her glass and bit her lip in what she hoped was an alluring way. 

With a swell of satisfaction, Hermione watched as Malfoy sucked in his breath, his adam’s apple bobbing as his eyebrow twitched. Her confidence surged. 

“Do you like a bossy woman?” Malfoy brought his tumbler up to his mouth, the rim kissing his lower lip. “Or do you prefer to the one in charge?” Hermione reached out and snatched the tumbler with her fingers, bringing it to her own lips. “Because I’m… flexible.” 

She took a gamble on the last line, but it seemed to do the trick. Malfoy’s gaze turned predatory as his Firewhisky burned her throat. When she had drunk the last drop, she replaced the glass on the table, the ghost of her lipstick haunting the rim. Malfoy’s eyes flicked down to the glass and then back to her face. Hermione watched as he seemed to wage an internal battle. Though she wasn’t well-versed in Legilimency, he could practically hear the thoughts racing through his head. He was clearly torn. 

“What do you want, Granger?” His voice cracked as he spoke, shattering any sort of facade that he was anything but putty in her hands. 

“I want to forget. I want to feel in control of my life. Even if just for a little while.” Reaching under the table and placing a hand on his knee. She felt a shiver go through him. “Isn’t that what you want, too?”

He swallowed. 

“Why me?” 

Hermione’s lips parted as her fingers traced small circles in his trouser leg. “Because you and I… we’re the same. We can use each other to forget. I sure as hell wouldn’t want to tell anyone about this. Would you? It could be… simple.” 

Her hand traveled higher. 

His breathing grew ragged. 

“Simple,” he panted, his grey eyes staring into hers. Without breathing another word, Malfoy tossed a few coins onto the table, grabbed Hermione around the middle, and tugged her toward the door. She had no idea where he would Apparate her, but she needed him to trust her. She needed to let him believe that he was in charge—that he was the one calling all the shots. 

They were only left exposed to the elements for the briefest of moments before he Apparated them to a bedroom. Hermione had only seconds to get her bearings: the room was generic—too generic to be his actual bedroom. A fire burned in the grate. This had to be a room at an inn of some sort. Perhaps the place he took all his women. 

But before Hermione could take in any more, Malfoy’s lips had crashed into hers, hard and needy. His mouth moved with a sort of desperation she hadn’t expected. She knew he wouldn’t be gentle, but this… she hadn’t been kissed like this, well, ever. 

It felt wicked. 

She shouldn’t want to kiss Malfoy. It shouldn’t feel  _ this  _ good. She needed to focus on her mission, but when his hands pulled her flush against the hard lines of his body, her mind went fuzzy. His hands trailed down her thighs, toying with the hem of her dress before they settled on her arse. He wasted no time gripping her steadily, lifting her until her legs wrapped around his waist.

Malfoy assaulted her senses with his presence. His lips traveled to her neck as he began to suck on her pulse point with a possessive zeal. She tilted her head back as he shifted her in his arms to sweep her hair out of the way. 

“Fucking hair,” he growled into her skin between nips. Malfoy took practised steps toward the bed without a single misstep. He must have done this so many times before. How many women had he brought to this place? How many women’s necks had he kissed like this? 

For some reason, the thought ignited a flame within Hermione.  _ She _ was in charge of this situation.  _ She _ was the one who should be calling the shots. 

Her next acts were clearly not in his plan… his little formula. 

With her legs still wrapped around his waist, she pushed her hips forward, pressing her core directly into his bulge. Malfoy clearly hadn’t expected this. He hissed, pulling his lips from her neck. Chest heaving, he looked into her eyes, pupils dilated with need. 

“I don’t think you understood me properly,” she began, grinding her center into him. “You seem to be under the pretense that you’re in charge tonight. We might be using each other, but let’s be clear about one thing.” 

Hermione unwrapped herself from his grasp, sinking back down onto the rug-covered floor. 

“I’m—”

She backed Malfoy onto the bed. 

“—the—”

She pushed him onto the mattress. 

“—boss.” 

Hermione shimmied out of her knickers and reached under her dress, helping them to pool at her ankles. Without breaking his gaze, Hermione unzipped her dress and let the strappy thing fall to the floor in a heap. Though she was completely exposed, she had never felt a surge of power crackle across her skin. 

She watched as Malfoy’s breath stuttered, his eyes traveling the length of her body with the sort of hunger that couldn’t be easily sated.

Climbing over Malfoy’s prone body, Hermione began to undo the button on the front of his trousers. He watched, as if in a daze, as she freed his cock from its confines. It stood proudly, and Malfoy groaned as Hermione pumped him experimentally two or three times before settling herself over him. He kicked his trousers off behind her—she could feel his legs kicking furiously. Hermione pulled Malfoy’s torso up so they sat facing each other. With one great tug, Hermione managed to get his shirt off, and their chests collided in a heated frenzy. The feel of skin against skin ignited a primal need deep within Hermione, and for a moment, she forgot all about the mission, allowing herself to pleasure instead of pain, if only for this once. 

“Are you on the potion?” Malfoy rasped, his forehead pressed against hers. 

“Yes,” Hermione bit out, her impatience growing. 

It was a dance as old as time itself, and she and Malfoy knew it well. Reaching between them, she brought his cock right to her entrance, pausing for the briefest of seconds before sinking down on him. 

Both parties moaned as Hermione rocked back and forth with urgency. There was no tenderness in the act, no emotion. Pure, carnal need ripped through Hermione as Malfoy began to meet each thrust as his hips pistoned off of the mattress. 

The friction both inside and out drove Hermione closer and closer to the edge of pleasure, and as their rhythm grew more and more frantic she teetered on a precipice she hadn’t felt with another person in a long time. Her pleasure crested, and his followed shortly after with a series of grunts. 

Even after he fell back on the pillows, panting and covered in sweat, she didn’t move. Her thighs kept him trapped within her grasp. He didn’t seem to mind or even notice, though. Instead, his eyes were closed as he came down. 

Hermione studied him from her position on top of him. He was so vulnerable right now. So easily taken advantage of. She could clearly see the Dark Mark burned into his forearm from this angle. Years later, the brand still set her insides aflame with anger. If she wanted to, she could easily immobilize him completely and interrogate him until he talked. 

Her mission would be done quickly and without a fuss, and she’d never have to see Malfoy again. 

And then he opened his eyes. Grey pierced brown and for half a second, Hermione forgot that there was even a mission to begin with. There was something about the way he looked at her. It was a way that no man had looked at her in so many long, difficult years. She didn’t consider herself weak, especially around men. No one had made her melt or her knees quake since she was a young teenager, and even then, no one had ever looked at her like this: as though she could make the sun rise and the stars shine. 

As quickly as the look came, it disappeared, and Malfoy pushed himself out of Hermione’s grasp. 

“Well, Granger, I have to say that was fun.” He reached for his trousers and pulled them up. Hermione watched as his flaccid cock disappeared behind dark fabric. “I didn’t know you had it in you to be such a good shag.” 

Hermione felt a little balloon of pride swell within her, though she schooled her features. Pursing her lips, she looked his half-naked form up and down before responding. “Hm. It was alright, I suppose. I’ve had better.” 

Malfoy raised an eyebrow and Hermione watched his grip on the shirt in his hands intensify. “Oh?” 

Hermione hummed. “But don’t get me wrong. It was…  _ lovely _ .” 

If she thought she had seen fire in Malfoy’s eyes earlier, but that look paled in comparison to the expression in them now. 

The corner of Hermione’s lips twitched. 

_ Excellent. _ She wanted to goad him on. 

“I can show you better than  _ lovely _ .” 

It was Hermione’s turn to raise her eyebrows. “Oh,  _ can _ you now?”

Malfoy pulled his shirt on, and when his head emerged, he reached forward and pulled Hermione forward into a searing kiss. The pressure of his lips made her toes curl and lit every nerve in her body on fire. 

Malfoy broke the kiss abruptly. He stood, walking past Hermione until he reached the spot where he had kicked off his shoes. Swooping down to grab them, he turned back to Hermione. 

“I’ll see you again soon, Granger,” he whispered before waving his wand and Apparating away with a ‘pop.’

Hermione stood in the middle of the nondescript bedroom, naked as the day she was born. And as soon as she was alone, a sly grin crept across her face. 

“See you, Malfoy.”

~*~*~*~

Hermione reached forward. Her fingers nimbly traced the outline of her husband’s torso. She knew him by heart at this point. How often had she seen his body in all these years? 

She would miss his body terribly when they could no longer be together. They were like magnets, helplessly drawn to each other no matter the distance between them. When Hermione had returned to that pub the very next night, he was sitting, not at the bar, but in the booth. The same booth as the night before—the very one that would become  _ their _ booth. 

They had hardly spoken a word before he Apparated them back to that same nondescript bedroom. This time, she led his face to the apex of her thighs, and he had feasted on her as though she were his final meal. 

They kept meeting night after night in  _ their _ booth until soon, Hermione didn’t even bother to set foot in the pub. Instead, she met Malfoy outside  _ their _ pub. He’d Apparate them to  _ their _ room, and they would claim each other on  _ their _ bed. 

It all would have seemed so intimate if it weren’t for the ever-present mission in the forefront of Hermione’s mind. 

Though the objective hadn’t changed after all these years, her method had shifted. Instead of merely seducing Malfoy and making him physically vulnerable, she needed to make him emotionally vulnerable. She needed to exploit his loneliness and dissatisfaction with his life and provide him with something he clearly craved: intimacy. 

Looking at her husband now, curled up on their marriage bed, wedding ring gleaming in the moonlight, Hermione knew, at the very least, that their relationship had indeed grown intimate.

~*~*~*~

“What are we exactly?” Hermione asked one night in mid-April after another one of their late-night trysts. She laid beside Malfoy, her palm splayed across his naked chest, breasts pressed into him. He had one arm wrapped around her shoulders, fingers trailing across her spine. “I’d hardly call us ‘friends with benefits’.” 

Malfoy snorted. “We were never friends, so that’s definitely out.” 

“Fuck buddies?” Hermione suggested, twisting herself to look up at him. 

“That’s just crude.” Malfoy shook his head. 

Hermione drew a breath. “Lovers?” 

It was a loaded term, of course. What they were… what they could be… it was not something that was allowed to get jumbled in her head. She had promised Kingsley, after all. Everything she did was for the Order. Even in the throes of passion, pressed intimately into their mattress, him seated firmly between her thighs, her mission was always in the back of her mind. 

_ Gain his trust. Find the source of his power. Destroy it. And him if you must. _

But to Malfoy, this  _ thing _ they had was real. She watched the way his eyes filled with something deeper than lust as they joined together in the most primal, most intimate way—it felt as though he slowly became less frenzied and possessive and more gentle. 

It was almost too easy—making Malfoy fall for her. Like a fly to honey, she knew his weakness would be his demise.

She waited for Malfoy to take the bait. 

Malfoy licked his lips, his eyes searching hers as his head barely shook. “We couldn’t—we can’t.” 

“Who says we can’t?” Hermione demanded, sitting up and looking down at him. “We’ve been meeting without anyone knowing all these weeks. Surely, it wouldn’t be all that different.” 

“But what about  _ simple _ ?” Malfoy sat up as well, his eyes narrowed in concern. “Our arrangement as it stands is simple. I wouldn’t want to—to jeopardize what we have.” 

Hermione leaned forward, tucking her fingers gently under his chin. Their eyes met, and Hermione felt her breath hitch. “And what is it that we have, Draco?” 

His eyes grew wide as his given name spilled from her lips, his expression becoming even softer. 

“I… I don’t really know, honestly. Is it awful of me to want to find out? I just… I never thought… never dreamed…” Malfoy— _ Draco _ stammered. 

“What didn’t you dream?” Hermione nudged. 

Draco turned his body to face her, fully exposed in the moonlight. He looked beautiful like this, open and vulnerable. A far cry from the pointy face boy she knew from their youth. 

“I didn’t dream that I could have this with anyone. My life has been complicated to say the least. Yes, there have been women, but none of them did anything for me. Not really.” Draco paused here, looking down as if the words he wanted to say were painted on the bed linens. “But you— _you_ , Hermione Granger of all people—you walked into that bloody pub and I finally found something that’s almost like happiness when we’re together. And I don’t want to bugger it up by being your _lover_ or some shite.”

Hermione frowned. “Then what do you want to be?” 

Draco hesitated, fear shining in his eyes. He shook his head. “I can’t say it. Not out loud. It’s not something I should want.” 

Reaching her hands out once more, Hermione cradled Draco’s face in her palms. “You’re allowed to want things, Draco. You’re human. And maybe what you want isn’t so… forbidden. Maybe someone else wants it too.” The lie flew from her mouth easily, and she found it didn’t taste nearly as bitter on her tongue as she thought it might. “Please, tell me.” 

Draco looked at her, eyes shining with emotion. What he said next sent a shiver right through her. 

“I don't want to meet you for quick shags or find you in dark alleyways. I don't want to taste firewhisky everytime we kiss. I want to walk with you on my arm—show the world the woman you are. I want to be your everything.” 

That was how Draco Malfoy became her everything. And she became his. 

That’s what she led him to believe, at least. 

Their relationship was far from typical. They both had their own lives. Hermione spent long hours with the Order, continually facing the fear of losing her friends. Draco, she assumed, spent his days with other Death Eaters. She didn’t really know. They never talked about the war when they were together. 

Instead, they did their best to avoid the topic altogether. They surrounded themselves with places that didn’t remind them of bloodshed, or even of magic at all. Their dates always happened in Muggle parts of the city. Parks. Restaurants. Museums. Sporting events. Draco explained the secret magical histories of historical objects and castles while Hermione interpreted football for him. 

It felt almost…  _ normal _ to be with him. Spend time with him. Hold his hand. Press kisses to his cheek in public. 

Kingsley knew none of this, of course. She kept the details of her reports to a bare minimum. Was she making progress? Sure. How close was she to finding out his secret? Moderately. But she needed more time. 

That was all The Minister cared about. He didn’t need to know more. 

Kingsley probably wouldn’t like that Hermione had begun to grow fond of her time spent with Draco. Gone was the impulse to strangle or curse him, instead replaced by a warm glow in her chest whenever they met. 

Spending time with Draco—really spending time with him, outside of a bedroom—Hermione felt as though she were peeling away at layers to him. He was a complex man with a complex past, and getting him to open up happened at a flobberworm’s pace. 

Still, he offered her bits and bobs. 

Sometimes, he talked about happy memories from his childhood. His face always lit up when he described chasing peacocks through his mother’s garden or flying his toy broom through the library, which had, apparently, gotten him into a great deal of trouble. He only brought up his parents very rarely, and when he did, his smile fell away. 

Narcissa had been killed a year prior in a raid. Lucius, mad with grief, hadn’t emerged from Malfoy Manor since. 

This was widely-known intel.

But hearing the hollowness in Draco’s voice as he talked about missing his mother brought an aching pain to news that might have otherwise made Hermione breathe a sigh of relief. Seeing how much agony Draco really was in, shed a light that exposed parts of him that no one else had seen before.

Seeing Draco this way, he was far more vulnerable in these moments—far more naked and exposed than when they laid in bed together. 

It was almost enough to forget that she had an objective. Sitting beside her fake boyfriend, rubbing gentle circles in his back as he confessed his exhaustion, her heart felt as though it extended past her own chest, reaching forward to offer comfort and compassion in any way possible. 

She almost forgot about the awful things he had done. 

She almost let herself forget. 

_ Almost.  _

~*~*~*~

Hermione rose from the bed. At this late hour, she should have been wearing one of her soft, silky nightgowns. She should have been curled beside her husband, head nuzzled into his chest like she usually did. 

That had always been her spot. Even during their first few months of dating, she found a solid sort of solace nestled in the planes of his chest. She tucked herself there during the walks they took in Muggle parks in May, while they watched a scary movie in the theatre in June, and when they went stargazing one night in the height of July. Curled into his side, Hermione felt safe. There was no other way to say it. Despite all she knew about what those arms were capable of—what they had done—when Draco had his arms around her, she felt a sense of peace settle over her like someone laying a blanket over her. 

But now, knowing what she knew—what she now must do—his arms didn’t feel as safe as they once did. 

Had she known all she now knew, would she have still made the choice to move in together? Then, it had been a matter of convenience—of access. Hermione found herself craving his company, especially on the nights they couldn’t meet. 

It had been an easy enough conversation. Draco hadn’t resisted the idea at all. In fact, he embraced the idea of moving in together from the moment the words left her lips. 

Hermione didn’t have many possessions. Nor, it seemed, did Draco. The war had diminished her need for  _ things _ . They didn’t talk about it, but she assumed that Draco felt similarly when he showed up at the flat with a single box of robes and a second one filled with books. 

Her heart stuttered as she watched him sort  _ their _ books onto a set of shelves in the living room. He knelt on the carpet in front of the shelf, carefully considering each title before shelving it according to topic and author name. It wasn’t exactly how she would have organized the books if given the chance, but she figured that he should be allowed some sense of agency.

Even now, years later, the bookshelves in their cottage were arranged in the same fashion. 

~*~*~*~

“I haven’t seen you in a while, Granger,” Kingsley commented one chilly October morning as Hermione sat down stiffly in the same musty chair across from him in his makeshift office. “How are things proceeding?” 

Hermione considered her answer, her face remaining stony. 

How were things proceeding?

Certainly, she didn’t feel it was appropriate to tell Kingsley about the twenty minutes Draco had spent buried between her thighs when they woke up that morning. Nor did it seem quite right to share the affectionate words he had whispered in her ear before Apparating away for the day. 

“Well,” Hermione reported, wiping her sweaty palms on her knees. “It’s going well.”

Kingsley nodded, reclining in his chair. He rubbed his temple with his fingers and closed his eyes. “Is there anything else you can add?” he asked after a minute of tense silence. “Anything specific you can tell me about your progress?”

Hermione felt the muscles in her face twitch. 

“S-specific?” she asked, clearing her throat. Schooling her expression, she stared cooly at Kingsley. “I wasn’t aware you wanted to know specifics.” 

“I didn’t. And I still don’t. Not really. But you’ve been working with the asset for almost eight months and we still don’t have any answers.” 

The asset. 

Not Draco. 

Not even  _ Malfoy _ . 

Hermione felt guilt wash over her. She was supposed to be on a mission for the Order, not fulfill some sort of silly childlike fantasy of what a picturesque life could look like. 

“I apologize,” stammered Hermione, picking at her nails. “He’s a tough nut to crack. I feel as though I’ve gotten closer to him in order to get the answers we’re looking for, but I’m not quite there yet.” 

Kingsley sighed. “How long do you anticipate your mission taking?” 

Hermione grimaced. Her mind buzzed as she considered the simultaneous relief and agony of both cutting her mission short and of allowing it to stretch on and on. 

“I’m not sure,” she answered truthfully. “Like I said, I feel like I’m getting somewhere, but it will take time.” 

Kingsley leaned forward, elbows on the edge of his desk. “I—I know you haven’t been able to come to as many meetings recently, so I don’t know how much you’re aware of, but—” He paused and sighed again, burying his face in his hands. “—but Draco Malfoy has been on the move recently. Just two days ago he murdered a Muggle couple at a revel in broad daylight.”

Hermione’s blood ran cold. 

Two days ago? 

They had ordered take away two days ago… watched a movie, and cuddled on the couch well into the evening. He seemed so calm—so normal. Had he actually committed murder so easily and then simply come home like nothing had happened? 

A chill that had nothing to do with the season rippled across her skin, making her hair stand on end. Her jaw trembled as her mind attempted to come to terms with this news. 

A murderer. 

Draco was a  _ murderer. _

He was the asset and this was a job. Nothing more. 

“I—I didn’t know that,” Hermione admitted, looking just past Kingsley at a blank stretch of wall behind his head. 

“I figured as much. That’s why I asked about your progress. The longer you take with your mission, the more people will die. It’s as simple as that.” 

Hermione wasn’t quite sure what to say, so she remained silent, the reality of so many deaths suddenly weighing heavily on her shoulders. 

“I’m going to need you to take this job incredibly seriously, Granger. I take it you’ve gained his trust?” He straightened a pile of parchment on his desk. 

“I have.” 

“Then find a way to exploit it. I picked you for this assignment for a reason, Granger. You’re my best. You always get the job done, and you’ve always been willing to go farther than anyone else.” Kingsley paused here, his dark eyes more serious than Hermione had ever seen them before. “I need you to do whatever it takes to get that information. No limits.” The order wasn’t particularly detailed, but it was explicit.

That night, before Draco got home, Hermione paced back and forth in their bedroom. She needed to complete the mission at all costs. The stakes were high—much higher than on any mission she’d been on in years. If she didn’t succeed, well, like Kingsley said: people would die. 

And as safe as Draco made her feel wrapped in his arms, she had other things to consider now. A bigger picture. 

Whatever it took. 

Exploit his trust. 

She needed to make Draco more vulnerable—the most vulnerable he had ever been before. Hermione thought of the stories he had told of Narcissa, who had died trying to defend her son. 

She then thought of her own parents, still tucked safely away in Australia. If they knew the danger she had lived through in the last eight years, they would be horror-struck. 

Hermione thought of all the parents who made sacrifices for their children in this war—who would do anything, say anything to protect their sons and daughters. 

It seemed like such a simple idea. 

So simple to execute, yet far more complex than she cared to picture at this moment. 

That was the night that she vanished her contraception potion. 


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hermione, still on her mission, has made a big decision. No decision is without consequences.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Infinite thanks to GracefulLioness and MsMerlin for being incredible Alphas. You breathe life into my writing. 
> 
> Grey Hermione continues to be very grey. 
> 
> Based on a dark interpretation of Samson and Delilah. So grateful to TheMourningMadam for running this fest!

Hermione padded along the carpeted floor of her bedroom in the cottage she had lived in for the past five years. She knew every inch of the place by heart—the nick in the wooden doorway to the kitchen; the creak in the third stair from the top; the best spot to sit by the hearth on a cold evening. 

It wasn’t a particularly big house, but it was warm and cosy in all the ways that mattered. She had called this humble cottage, with all its quirks and homely splendor home for so long that it was hard to imagine her life any other way. 

Hermione could trace everything she now considered essential to her life back to a singular moment. 

It wasn’t a moment she was particularly proud of, but she had only done what was necessary. At least that’s what she had perceived at the time. 

She had stood in the bathroom of their old flat, lit only by a single fluorescent bulb, hands shaking, but with determination in her eyes. The canvas bag filled with little vials of pink potion had sat on the back of the damn toilet that was always running, and she pointed her wand at it with solemnity. Draco had been away doing  _ who knows what _ with the Death Eaters when she did it—whispered, “ _ Evanesco _ ,” at the pouch. 

Just like that, Hermione had vanished her contraceptive potion. On that day, all those years ago, she felt resolve fill her chest. There was only one path forward. 

It was the decision that changed everything. 

~*~*~*~

Snowflakes drifted past her window in the early morning hours of a frigid December day. Draco was still fast asleep, his body curled up under the blankets, clearly and blissfully unaware of the world outside of his little cocoon. 

Hermione wasn’t sleeping anymore—she had barely closed her eyes that entire night. She’d spent more of the night tossing and turning, her mind a constant stream of thought she wasn’t about to turn off. Giving up further attempts at sleep, she now sat up in bed beside Draco, her knees curled up to her chest. Curls fell haphazardly around her face, tousled from tossing and turning most of the night.

She had tiptoed back to bed from the bathroom only moments prior, socks muffling her steps. Chewing her lip, she turned her head to face Draco, who was lying beside her in bed. 

Looking at his sleeping form, Hermione would never have guessed the kind of person he could be when he was awake. In sleep, he was peaceful, his breathing even and his face settled in an untroubled expression. Worried creases that graced his features while awake were nowhere to be seen. Instead they were replaced with a softness that begged to be caressed. Though she had not seen his cruelty in person since their days as classmates, Kingsley’s reports clearly exposed him as someone capable of brutality. 

Hermione laid her head on her bent knees, turning away from Draco to face the window. She couldn’t bring herself to look at him like this. Not when she couldn’t quite reconcile the man she knew and the monster he was. 

The white flakes caught her attention against the watercolour grey skies. How could snow look so delicate, and yet so heavy all at once? Though it floated on the wind, it fell to the earth as though laden down by some invisible force.

She’d rather think about the snow. She’d rather think about  _ anything _ else.

But that wasn’t an option. Not really. Not anymore. 

She was pregnant. 

After sicking up multiple times this week, she performed the charm in the privacy of her bathroom early that morning. With the house still bathed in darkness, her hands shook as she pointed her wand at her stomach and whispered the incantation. 

A pale golden glow instantly enveloped her middle.

Pregnant. 

Now, sitting beside the sleeping form of her boyfriend— _ the asset _ —her whole body trembled as the weight of her decision sat on her shoulders. 

This changed  _ everything _ . It made every attempt to fulfill the mission up until now feel like child’s play. Sex could only bring some men to their knees. But fatherhood was something different altogether. 

It was an odd situation. She considered the creature growing within her Draco’s first and foremost; considered his fatherhood before her own impending motherhood. At least for now, in this very abstract way, this baby felt like  _ his _ . Draco, born into a family steeped in pureblood tradition, had been doted upon as a child—as the only heir to the Malfoy family. Even the darkest of men like Lucius seemed to have it in their bleak hearts to be moved for their offspring. She knew Lucius would have done  _ anything _ for his family—for Draco and she prayed Draco would feel the same about this new life growing inside of her. 

Placing her hand on her stomach, she forced deep breaths from her lungs, keeping the anxiety that had begun to sink in at bay. She had to remain calm and discerning. Now more than ever was the time to keep a level head. She couldn’t lose herself in fickle emotions that might jeopardize the mission. 

That’s what she needed to feel— _ nothing _ . Because if she felt nothing, then she would be able to do the inevitable without compromising her own sanity. 

Hermione tore her eyes away from the falling snow and turned to lay her temple against her knees. She wound her arms tighter around her legs. How would he react? Would he embrace fatherhood with open arms, or would he lash out? Would he show signs of the monster she’d only read about in reports given by the Order? Or would he celebrate, whisking her in his arms and kissing her until the very air in her lungs filled his own? The man she had come to know over the past several months seemed open, kind, gentle… but she knew the horrors he was capable of committing. 

As if he could sense her unspoken questions, Draco shifted, his body tensing as he stretched. 

“Mmm darling,” he groaned into his pillow as he shifted beside her. “What time is it?” 

Hermione cleared her throat, trying to stop her voice from wavering. “Erm, it’s almost half-past five.” 

Draco’s eyes flew open. 

“Are you all right?” he pressed, eyes narrowed. “Why are you up?” 

His eyes flicked from her face and down her torso, settling on the spot where her hand laid on her middle. 

“I—”

“Are you feeling okay? Have you been sick?” 

Draco sat up in bed, leaning over to place a hand on her forehead. Worry dotted his face as his warm palms pressed lightly over her cheeks. For a mere second, Hermione’s mind flashed back to the cruel sneer she had seen so often on his face as a boy. Did he still sneer like that? At his victims, perhaps? The thought of  _ that _ Draco and  _ this _ Draco being one in the same made bile rise in her throat. 

“You’re flushed, but you don’t seem to have a fever. Are you—”

“I’m okay, Draco,” Hermione reassured him. Nerves swirled around her stomach, piling high until it sat in her throat. Her heart thudded against her ribcage as she inhaled, preparing to say what needed to be said. “I’m not sick. I’m just—I need to tell you something okay?” 

She could have sworn she saw a shadow cross his eyes for a moment, but she pushed forward anyway. 

“I’m pregnant.” 

The words hung in the small space between them, flurrying like snowflakes. 

All the colour drained from Draco’s face. 

“You—you’re—p-pregnant?” He blinked rapidly as his expression shifted seamlessly from disbelieving to panicked, ecstatic to horrified. “But we—I thought you said you… aren’t you on the potion?” 

“I am, but..” She nodded. “It’s only ninety-six percent effective.” 

Draco swore. 

Hermione pushed her own anxiety-ridden feelings down as she watched Draco’s reaction. He was running his fingers through his mussed hair, his eyes darting back and forth across the room, unseeing. 

When he didn’t speak for a few minutes, Hermione reached her arm out and placed a gentle hand on his shoulder. 

“Are you okay?” she asked timidly. “I mean, I know this was unexpected and that this is complicated, but—”

“You’re bloody right, this is complicated,” he moaned. “ _ Fuck! _ ” Draco reached for his pillow and buried his face in it. “How could I be so daft?” 

A ripple traveled through Hermione’s body at Draco’s words. She wasn’t sure if it was out of fear or sadness or even anger, but she began to tremble. 

“Draco?” she whispered, no longer trying to hide the tremor in her voice. “Please don’t be mad.”

Draco lifted his head from the pillow. When he peeked at her through his curtain of blond hair, Hermione almost gasped at what she saw. Hot tears streaked his crimson cheeks. Eyes that she had expected to be angry were instead brimming. His bottom lip quivered. Gone was any pretense that he was anything but a terrified boy. 

Hermione felt her heart nearly rip in two as she wanted to both cradle him and crucify him in his raw vulnerability. 

“Draco?” She tried again, her voice even quieter this time. 

“I’m not mad. Not at you, anyway,” Draco clarified, wiping his face with the back of his hand. “I’m mad at myself. This isn’t what I wanted. How could we—how could we possibly bring a child into our world? With you being so—and me—” 

Draco broke off into another sob. He didn’t finish his thoughts. He didn’t need to. Hermione knew exactly what he was trying to say. Reaching out, she rubbed gentle circles on his shaking back. 

“We’ll figure it out,” she murmured, pressing her lips to the crown of his head. 

They sat in near-silence for several minutes. Through the silence, the gears in Hermione’s turned rapidly. A swell of anticipation grew in her chest. 

This could be it. 

The moment the tides would turn in her favor—the moment she'd been waiting for since their first bedroom rendezvous.

“Draco,” she said softly, tucking blond locks behind his left ear. “I don’t ask you about what you do and you don’t ask me. But if we bring a—” Hermione paused, because despite knowing she had purposefully fallen pregnant, it was still hard to utter  _ that _ word. It was hard to know a life was already growing inside her. “A-a baby into the world, something’s going to have to change. Something has to give.” 

Though his tears had stopped, Draco still sniffed as he sat by her side, his legs crossed under him. 

“I-I think so too.” 

His voice was small but sure. 

Hermione pressed on. Even as a little pinprick in the back of her mind planted seeds of doubt, she knew what she had to do. “Is there a way you can back away from what you do? Give the job to someone else?” 

Draco hung his head. “No,” he said bitterly.

Hermione’s brows furrowed. “Why not?”

“I just can’t. What I do—what I have—it’s no one else’s job. I can’t just give—” Draco cut himself off, licking his lips. He sighed and ran his hand through his hair again. It was as though he was at war with himself. “I’m vital. I don’t pretend to think you don’t know that. If I don’t do my job… if I don’t show up and just vanish… I don’t want to think about it. They’ll never stop hunting me down. And if they knew about you and—and—”

Draco extended his trembling hand and laid it against her still-flat stomach. Instantly, Hermione felt a surge of…  _ something _ wash over her. She couldn’t describe it. Not really. It was like his hand was meant to be there; much like their bodies were drawn together as magnets were, so, too, his hand was drawn to the place where their child was growing inside of her. 

She felt the familiar heat in her cheeks as tears threatened to spill onto them. Why did Draco Malfoy always have to go and make things so bloody complicated? Why couldn’t he just give her the answer she wanted, no—needed to hear? 

“But isn’t this baby worth it? Aren’t  _ we _ worth it?” she pressed. “I’ll leave my—my work. I’ll stop. I’ll put it all behind me. It would be just you, me, and the baby. We could go away. Far away.  _ Please, _ Draco.” 

As Hermione pleaded with Draco, tears falling freely, she was shocked to feel her chest tighten with each word she spoke. 

“I can’t, Hermione. I just  _ can’t. _ He’d find us and kill all of us.” 

For the first time since reconnecting with Draco, she could feel real and potent fear in his voice and could see it reflected in his eyes. He always deflected questions about his connection to Voldemort. Not that she asked many. But until this exact moment, he had always managed to tiptoe around the subject. 

And now… 

The fractures were appearing, marring the secrecy that had defined their relationship up until this point.

“All right,” she relented. “We won’t run.”

Draco nodded, sniffing. “We won’t run.” He looked up at the ceiling, trying to gather himself and wiping the bags from underneath his eyes with his pointer fingers. Tears cleared away, Hermione watched his eyes travel around the bedroom of their flat as though seeing it for the very first time. His eyes lingered on the window. Snow had begun to pile up on the windowsill outside. 

“Let’s move, though,” he said quietly. “Let’s get married. And then move where no one will bother us.” 

Hermione let Draco’s plan absorb for a minute before she found her vocal chords again. 

“M-married?”

“I’m going to do right by you, Hermione Granger. And by our child.” He looked back at her, and she saw one corner of his mouth turn up, if just for a moment. 

Hermione’s stomach twisted at the sight of his smile. 

“Still, Draco… marriage is, well… it’s  _ forever _ . Are you sure—?”

“I’m sure.” 

His voice didn’t waver this time. Not even a little. His eyes were set on hers, serious and unblinking. 

For the first time since her mission began, Hermione felt fear begin to creep in, but whether it was fear of not succeeding or something else entirely, she couldn’t be sure.

~*~*~*~

They were married in a Muggle civil ceremony shortly after the new year. Hermione had been surprised when Draco suggested it. 

“Neither of us have family who can attend,” he’d reasoned over a dinner of beef stew three days before Yule. “And we can’t tell any friends or… coworkers.” He grimaced and swallowed a spoonful of stew. “We definitely don’t want to register our marriage with the Ministry. It’s the only logical answer.” 

For someone Hermione had always known to have dramatic flair, his pragmatic attitude was surprising. Within three weeks of discovering the pregnancy, they signed the paperwork at a register office near their flat, wrangling two unknown Muggles to be their witnesses. 

At Draco’s insistence, Hermione wore a white dress. It wasn’t anything fancy with lace or tulle, but it draped over her still-slim figure in a way that she thought looked nice when she looked in the mirror. Draco, dressed in a Muggle suit she had picked out, didn’t take his eyes off her through the entire ceremony. 

As she signed her name—her new name—onto the marriage certificate, her heart gave a strange sort of tug. 

Hermione Jean Granger-Malfoy.

This was her life now. 

A husband, a child, and a mission that was slowly becoming more and more convoluted with each passing day.

They moved to the countryside in mid-February, to a cosy cottage outside of Bakewell. Draco had been sure to check for a lack of Magical settlements nearby as well as distance from cities. 

When she asked why they were moving so deep into the country, Draco gave her his most straightforward answer to date, not looking her in the eye as he spoke. 

“He’s establishing strongholds in every big city. Or trying to, at least. Even in Muggle London, it’s getting more and more dangerous to live without detection.” 

Hermione nodded in understanding, making a mental note to send an encrypted owl to Kingsley with that information. 

The little town of Bakewell was quaint, with a small, mostly ageing population. Despite its relative safety, they only moved after casting the Fidelius charm as well as making their new cottage unplottable. This time, instead of arriving at their new home with a couple boxes each, they hired a lorry driver to cart a dozen or so boxes and their furniture northward. 

Sure enough, they were the only magical inhabitants of Bakewell as far as they could tell. Draco seemed to visibly relax as soon as they settled in, no longer hesitant to take evening walks or be seen hand-in-hand. In fact, he opened up too perfect strangers with remarkable ease, telling them how excited he was to be a father once Hermione’s baby bump had become noticeable. 

Which had been far sooner than Hermione had anticipated. 

The fatigue from the pregnancy had been tremendous, but she’d just assumed it was normal from what she’d read about magical pregnancies. Her stomach continued to grow at a rapid way. Though she had only been sixteen weeks along, according to her books, she was measuring closer to twenty. Her stomach already bore stretch marks, marring the skin on her front even further than it already was. 

It was the nausea that finally drew them to the clinic. She was constantly sick—even with the strongest anti-nausea potions that Draco could brew. Hermione dragged her feet into the examination room, expecting the worst news. That her body was defective. That something was wrong. With all the trauma her body had experienced since the war began, she wouldn’t have been surprised if her was incapable of carrying a child to term.

Instead, the midwife informed them that they were expecting twins. Boys, in fact. 

Draco was over the moon. 

Since receiving the news he’d spent nearly every free moment fussing over their children’s arrival. The way he worried over the model of the cot—flipping through every available catalogue he could get his hands on and even going to the local library and asking the librarian to teach him how to use the ‘comtooper’ so he could do extra research—made Hermione smile. 

He worked meticulously on everything in the nursery, right down to the placement of the nappy bin. And the pile of books about child development and fatherhood that sat next to his side of the bed—he began collecting them even before their appointment with the midwife, and he spent every night before bed poring over them. Hermione noticed with a flutter in her heart that the pages looked slightly dog-eared, with several marked with bits of parchment. 

It was  _ almost _ like bliss. 

Preparing for this new life consumed Hermione so that thoughts of the mission fell to the wayside, much like a slow globe gathering dust on a shelf. Though her thoughts occasionally fell back on creating moments of weakness to expose Draco, for the most part, her mind was elsewhere. In the moments when thoughts of her mission resurfaced like a splash of icy water to the face, a surge of self-loathing grew inside of her. She couldn’t keep forgetting the purpose of all of this—their cottage, their marriage, their babies—everything. But when her mind inevitably slipped back into carefree life they’d created, she blamed it squarely on the pregnancy hormones coursing through her body.

The closer she grew to her due date, the less she thought of the mission. Of course, she stuck her head in the Floo once a month or so to attend meetings with the Order, but Kingsley largely left her alone. She heavily implied early in her pregnancy that she had a plan that would lead to an endgame solution, but refused to go into greater detail. 

She wasn’t sure how Kingsley or anyone else would react to the children of Death Eaters growing inside of her. To be frank, she was terrified of what she would be accused of. 

Judgement or not, she was about to become the mother to Draco Malfoy’s children. The months passed in a few blinks, and before she could fully wrap her mind around the twins’ arrival, she was waddling around the cottage in late June. The closer her due date grew, the less she liked to look in the mirror, though not for feelings of vanity as Draco assumed. 

“You look so lovely, darling,” he whispered in her ear one morning, trailing kisses along her neck as she struggled to zip up a maternity dress. “I can hardly keep my hands off you, you’re so beautiful.” 

Hermione grimaced. 

If their relationship had been an honest one, even a little bit, she would have told him the truth right then and there: that she didn’t mind stretch marks and a swollen body. She was used to scars disfiguring her. What bothered her was the dissonance she experienced each time she realised the sudden turn her life had taken. 

She had never expected to marry. Or have children. Or live any sort of life that could be considered close to normal. It had been many years since she had accepted that fate. And to see herself like this, belly swollen with child— _ children _ —it was as though she was a voyeur into someone’s life—an alien in her own body, even. 

It wasn’t as though she could turn back now. She would have these boys, hopefully sooner rather than later, and then renew her efforts to get Draco to expose the source of his power. 

As Hermione neared her due date, feeling as big as an erumpant, the doctor suggested methods to encourage the twins to make a quick and orderly exit. Draco, bless him, helped her try everything. Walking, spicy food, special teas… he was at her side as she made each attempt to induce labour. 

When she suggested they try sex, Draco looked like the kneazel that got the cream. They hadn’t been physically intimate in some time. She had just been too uncomfortable in recent weeks. Not that Draco had complained at all. 

Surely, he must have been a saint. 

It was an odd thought to have, given the circumstances. After all, Hermione knew for a fact that he was far from saintly. She could see his Dark Mark every time he undressed in front of her. Though she hated to admit it, she had grown used to the sight of it over the past year and a half. The skull and snake on his forearm no longer sent a chill up her spine. It hardly even triggered reminders that Draco was a murderer. Rather, it was simply a part of her husband—and that was precisely the problem.

That Draco was more human to her than ever before was the exact opposite of her original intentions. When had she even begun referring to him as her  _ husband _ in her private thoughts? He had been merely ‘the asset’ or ‘Malfoy’ for a shockingly brief period of time. Then just ‘Draco’. And now she was using terms of endearment? 

Hermione began to hate herself for forgetting, even for a while, that he was anything but a murderous snake. 

But there was one thing she couldn’t quite hate herself for. Evil as she knew he could be, Draco was intimidatingly attractive—almost statuesque in the way he looked when he stood, shirtless, in their bedroom in the early morning sun, his pyjama bottoms slung low over his hips. 

There were so many sacrifices she had made for the sake of this mission. Surely, allowing herself to enjoy sex with him wasn’t so bad. 

After consulting with the midwife, they gave sex a try. Not that either of them complained about their marching orders. After a bit of awkward fumbling in several positions that didn’t quite work, Hermione ended up settling on top of Draco. He helped her move up and down with his strong hands supporting her thighs. As she rolled her hips, Hermione couldn’t help but feel completely unsexy. Surely she had all kinds of double chins from that angle and everything felt different, somehow. 

Though Draco clearly had no issues with her appearance, for as he cried out her name in ecstasy and stared at her with soft eyes full of love in the afterglow, she couldn’t help the overwhelming sense of wholeness that enveloped her. Perhaps, just for a moment, she could pretend that this wasn’t all a farce; that they really were in love and that the children about to make their appearance in the world were conceived in passion rather than deceit. 

Draco lazily pressed kisses onto her swollen stomach. “I love you,” he breathed, a lopsided smile growing on his face. 

Hermione felt all the oxygen leave her lungs. Draco didn’t verbalize affection very often; he showed it far more through his actions. She could probably count the number of times he told her that he loved her on both sets of fingers. Whereas, Draco could probably count the same words coming from her on one hand. 

But in this moment, pressed against him, his grey eyes filled with love, she wanted nothing more than to whisper the words into his sweet skin again and again. She wanted to forget that he was her target, that she was on a mission—that there was a war going on at all. 

She was so tired of fighting. So tired of losing loved ones. 

So perhaps, she tried to reason, just for a little while, she could let herself love him. 

Maybe it was the sense of relief that came with accepting that she was falling for Draco, or maybe it was just the sex, but Hermione woke up with sharp pains across her abdomen in the middle of the night. Alone in the dark, she allowed herself to feel panic for the first time in months—years, even—as the reality of her impending motherhood sank in. 

This was it.

In a matter of hours, her mission and her entire life would shift. 

Hermione breathed through her panic.

_ In. Out. In. Out.  _

She focused on the feeling of the night air filling and leaving her lungs. She could do this. She  _ had _ to do this. These babies were coming whether she was ready or not. 

After timing the pains for nearly an hour, Hermione determined they were steady enough that it was time to wake Draco. Like her, he was a light sleeper. Years of war clearly had their impact. So when Hermione jostled his shoulder, he sat up with a sharp intake of breath. 

“What’s going on?” he mumbled through a sleepy fog. “Is everything okay?”

“Call the midwife, Draco. I think they’re coming.” 

The rest of the night sped by in a blur of pain and torment. In order to make sure their boys remained a secret from the outside world, they arranged to have Hermione give birth at home. Draco filled their clawfoot tub with warm water and Hermione waddled back and forth between there and a large inflatable ball for several hours. By the time the midwife arrived, she was on all fours in the tub, panting like an animal. 

This was what hell felt like, she was sure of it. Her whole body felt as though it was being ripped in two. This was nearly as bad as the Cruciatus curse. What had she been thinking, going off contraceptive potion? What was she doing, bringing not one, but  _ two _ babies into this war-torn, violent world when she was not prepared to be a mother? When she was married to a murderous snake? 

But it was too late now, by far. 

Micah and Matthew Granger-Malfoy came roaring into the world that afternoon only seven minutes apart, wispy golden curls and all. Hermione couldn’t count the number of times Draco had cried since their arrival. He cradled them both in his arms as he sat in an armchair by her bedside, bliss written in the upturn of his lips. 

“Thank you,” he whispered into her sweaty, matted hair over and over. “For giving us two beautiful sons. Thank you.” 

As Hermione looked at her newborn sons, she knew she should feel a tugging at her heartstrings. She knew that mothers were drawn to their children by instinct—that their attachment to their babies was stronger than any other bond in the world. 

But as Hermione looked down on their angelic little faces—their perfectly shaped lips, the small button noses and the fine matte of hair that coated their little arms and shoulders, she felt… nothing.

Even when she held them to her breast while they fed, her heart failed to swell.

There was no cooing over them, no snuggling. She didn’t watch them sleep in astonishment like Draco, nor did their cries stir a motherly instinct to fix their woes. And once they were fed, and thoroughly sedated, she held no issues about handing them off to Draco—ready to put distance between herself and the two things she was supposed to love most in the world.

It was as though her brain wasn’t wired correctly… that there was something  _ missing _ . She was supposed to feel over the moon. She was supposed to feel and instant connection, but instead she felt empty. 

No matter how hard she tried to jumpstart her heart—to will herself to feel  _ something _ , it just didn’t seem to want to beat for her sons. 

It was as though her body was rejecting the very notion of this fraudulent motherhood. 

She should have fought it—should have pushed herself to form a bond with her sons. 

But they didn’t feel like her sons. She winced when they cried and refused to look down at them as they suckled at her breasts. They just seemed so separate from her, like someone else’s children had been left in her charge. 

Hermione could feel Draco watching her interact with their boys. Waiting for some lightbulb to flicker to life in her heart, but when it didn’t happen and she’d hastily hand them off, she could see the pained expression on his face. She knew it wasn’t right, she was practically rejecting their children, but she couldn’t stop the disconnection. 

“Are you sure you don’t want to hold them a bit longer?” he questioned one evening nearly two weeks after their birth. His eyes flicked between her face and the two babies mewling in her lap. “I’ll wind them. And then you can give them cuddles.” 

Hermione tilted her head slightly as she considered looking down at the babies in her arms. But she quickly reversed her action, forcing herself to look toward the ceiling. “I don’t think that’s a good idea,” she whispered. “Please, just take them.” 

“But Hermione—” 

“Just take them, okay?” she hissed, feeling her jaw tighten as tears threatened to spill over onto her cheeks. 

Draco never brought them back. 

After that, Hermione pretended to be asleep whenever she heard Draco’s footsteps padding down the hallway. He would poke his head in briefly. Sometimes he called her name. Other times, the only sound came from the cooing of one of the babies, presumably in his arms. Buried beneath blankets in the darkness of her bedroom, she fluctuated between cool disinterest in anything but sleep and white hot anger and shame at her inability to do anything correctly. 

Every once in a while, her thoughts drifted toward the twins. She vaguely wondered how they were doing and why she so rarely heard them cry. Babies were supposed to cry, right? 

Hermione supposed Draco had taken on a House Elf to care for the little things. It was how he had been raised, after all. He had mentioned his upbringing briefly during her pregnancy. An elf called Tiffy had changed all his nappies and rocked him to sleep well into his toddlerhood. Political, aristocratic, pureblood parents surely had considered many things more important than rearing their own child. And though Draco wasn’t playing the same roles as his parents, surely, those sensibilities had rubbed off on him. 

Yes, surely he had gotten a House Elf. The babies were being cared for, at least, even if it wasn’t by her. The passing thought gave her at least a little reassurance as she burrowed deeper into her bed. 

She only ever got up to go to the bathroom and pick at the tray of food left at her bedside twice a day. The door to the bedroom otherwise remained closed. Days bled into weeks until she wasn’t sure how long it had been since she had given birth. With the blinds drawn and the lights turned off, her sense of time had been buried in fog long ago. 

When Hermione’s eyes flew open one night many, many weeks after giving birth—was it night? She couldn’t properly tell—the first thing she noticed was the sound of crying. It wasn’t nearby, but instead muffled, as if coming from a different corner of the cottage. 

Who was crying? 

She sat up and rubbed her eyes. As she breathed in through her nose, she felt oxygen rush into her lungs and brain, clearing away the fog that had settled there. The room around her was painted in dark hues of grey and blue with only the thinnest stripes of moonlight illuminating the wall across from the bed. 

Hermione looked around at her bedroom. She soaked in the appearance dresser and the armchair and the surrounding floor. It all looked so vacant. Untouched. She turned to face the left side of the bed—Draco’s spot. He wasn’t there. 

She wasn’t particularly surprised by this revelation. The two of them had hardly exchanged two words since… well—since. Still, the sight of the blankets on his side of the bed stretched neatly over the mattress made her stomach twist. 

If it really was the middle of the night and Draco wasn’t here in bed with her, then where was he? Her mind jumped immediately to Voldemort. Was he at a meeting? Torturing people? Murdering them? The twist in her stomach grew tighter. 

Another cry broke her out of her spiraling thoughts. Both babies were wailing. Now that she was more awake, it was obvious that the sound was coming from down the hallway in the nursery that Draco had prepared so lovingly during her pregnancy. Why was the baby crying? Wasn’t the House Elf taking care of it properly?

Something inside of Hermione shifted. It wasn’t anything monumental, but it was enough for her to swing her legs over the edge of the mattress. Feet caressing the cool wooden floor, she pushed herself to stand. Legs wobbling slightly from disuse, she took tentative steps toward the door, where she knew her dressing gown to be hung. 

Turning the metal knob in her hand, she crept down the dark hallway. It felt like a dream of sorts. Her feet seemed to carry her toward her destination without any sort of direction. It was almost as if her body knew what it had to do. She was drawn to the crying infant by instinct—like they were calling to her. 

“I’m coming,” she whispered into the darkness. 

As she walked, she couldn’t help but notice pictures hanging on the wall. Pictures she had never seen before. Pictures of the babies. Yet they were unmoving. 

Why were there Muggle photographs instead of Magical ones? Surely Draco would have used a charmed camera to take pictures. And how old were they in these photographs? How long had she really been in bed, ignoring reality? She had so many questions without answers that pushed her onward. 

The cries at the end of the hallway grew louder, and Hermione doubled her pace until she stood right in front of a closed door. This was it. Somehow she knew that this was another moment that would change everything. She wrapped her fingers around the cool brass doorknob and turned. 

The nursery was just as Draco had crafted it: warm and inviting, with two identical cots sitting along the back wall. A soft glow emanated from a lamp between the two, bathing the room in light. 

The piercing shrieks of the wailing infants cut through the night, ruining any sort of peace that Draco’s carefully curated room created. Where was the blasted House Elf? Shouldn’t it have been comforting the babies already? Hermione turned her head frantically, as though she was sure that one would suddenly pop out from behind one of the cots. When it was apparent that no one was there, panic began to rise in her throat. 

Where was Draco? Shouldn’t he be here taking care of the boys? If the House Elf was busy elsewhere, the job fell to him, didn’t it? 

The babies’ cries grew more desperate, shrill and violent, as if they could sense someone else’s presence in the room. 

Hermione balled her fists, squeezing her eyes shut. 

Shame began to radiate through her chest alongside the panic. She  _ should know  _ what was going on—should know where Draco was, should know who was meant to be caring for the babies. Hermione couldn’t help the voice that echoed in her head as she stood, shaking in the nursery.

_ You’re a failure.  _

The words repeated themselves over and over. 

_ You’re a failure.  _

Hermione’s heart pounded.

_ You’ve failed your mission. _

Her blood ran cold.

_ You’ve failed as a mother.  _

Tears spilled down her cheeks as she joined her sons, crying for them, for herself, for everything she wasn’t. 

It wasn’t until Hermione childishly wiped her tears away on her dressing gown sleeves that a new thought crossed her mind: 

_ Maybe you could soothe them.  _

Tears still sticking to her eyelashes, Hermione turned her attention back to the cots. Gathering her courage, she lifted a foot and stepped forward. As she moved toward the cots, her chest tightened and her palms grew sweaty. What would she see when she looked over the bars? What would she feel? She hadn’t felt anything when they were born, so why would this time be any different? 

The thought of feeling nothing terrified her. 

The thought of feeling something— _ anything _ —terrified her more. Hermione’s whole body shook as she took her final step, her eyes finally traveling into the cots.

And then there they were. 

Little faces, screwed up, red, and screaming came into view. 

All the air left Hermione’s lungs. 

A thousand questions immediately flew through her mind. How old were they now? Why were they crying? Which twin was which? 

Had they always been so big? Surely not. They had seemed so impossibly tiny—so fragile—at birth that she hadn’t wanted to touch them. She hadn’t even wanted to look at them. 

But now she couldn’t stop looking. They were beautiful. They were her sons. And she… she was their mother. 

It hit her like a bludger. All the wind was knocked out of her and her breathing grew ragged. 

She was their _mother_. 

She  _ loved _ them. 

Surging forward until she was pressed against the bars of the left cot, she reached down and wrapped her arms around the first twin. His wispy curls felt impossibly soft against her palm as she supported his tiny head. Drawing her son to her chest, she cradled his body, turning her head to whisper to him. “I’m here. Mummy’s here. I’m sorry I’m so late.” 

Stepping to the second cot, Hermione carefully reached down with her right hand and took the second twin into her arms. Their screams pierced her ears. Where she would have turned away before, she now held them close, her body swaying back and forth of its own accord. Shushing noises she had never made before escaped her lips in an attempt to calm them. 

“I love you,” she whispered to her sons. “I love you so much.” 

All the anxiety and apathy that had filled her for so long fell away and was immediately replaced with rush of love such as she had never felt before. 

She wouldn’t fail her sons. Not again. 

Hermione wasn’t sure how long she stood in the middle of the nursery, but it seemed she had done something right. Matthew and Micah—though she wasn’t sure who was who, which made her insides squirm with guilt—had settled down shortly after she began to cradle them in her arms. Shortly thereafter, their little snores filled her ears, their bodies slumped against her shoulder in peaceful slumber. 

From behind her, Hermione heard the door creak open. She knew it was the House Elf, come to take the babies into their care. For the first time, she didn’t want to give them up. She wanted to keep holding her sons, forever if possible. 

“Hermione?” 

She whipped around at the sound of the familiar voice. It wasn’t a House Elf, but—

“Draco,” Hermione breathed, laying eyes on her husband. Only, he didn’t look like the Draco he knew. Gone were the neatly-pressed robes and the tamed hair, instead exchanged for comfortable-looking Muggle sweatpants and a T-shirt, his hair clearly only brushed cursorily. The calm, cool, alabaster face he had worn for years had disappeared, giving way to one with bags under his eyes and flushed cheeks. “What are you—? I thought you weren’t here.” 

Hermione’s eyes fell further down to where Draco clutched a baby bottle in each hand. Looking closer, she saw a slightly stained cloth slung over his left shoulder and a stuffed duck hanging from his sweatpants pocket. His feet were tucked into navy slippers that didn’t quite fit right, the insole stretching far past his heel.

The dusty cogs of Hermione’s mind began to crank into life as she processed the sight of a disheveled Draco in front of her. 

And it hit her. 

There was no House Elf, was there? 

“D-Draco? It’s you?” she croaked out. “Have you been the one taking care of… of them?” She gestured to each shoulder with her chin. 

Draco straightened, licking his lips. “Of course it was me. I-I’m their father.” He spoke the words as though he was saying something obvious. As though she should have expected him to run himself ragged. 

Hermione wanted to say something to him.  _ Anything _ . But her tongue felt as though it was made of lead. She was afraid that if she opened her mouth she might vomit. Or worse, that she’d start shaking so much that she’d hurt her sons. 

She expected him to spit vitriol at her—to demand that she leave and to never touch their sons again. But he didn’t do any of that. He didn’t even speak. 

Wordlessly, he set the bottles on a small table next to the rocking chair, his eyes never leaving hers. In them, Hermione saw an expression she had never quite before. And then he was hugging her, his arms wrapped gently around her and the twins. He pressed his lips into her temple. 

“Are you—? Are you okay?” he whispered into her curls. “I was so worried. You—you didn’t respond to me for almost four months. I thought I’d lost you.” 

The revelation that she had been lying in bed for nearly four months somehow felt overshadowed by the concern and incredulity in Draco’s shaking voice. Hermione could hear his breathing hitch in her ear. Was he trying to hold back tears? 

The urge to cry overwhelmed Hermione again. Here, she had assumed that Draco would only play a cursory role in his children’s lives. Not only that, but she was so sure that he would be  _ furious _ at her for abandoning them to drown in her own mental chaos. But to be received instead with open arms so clearly full of love and relief rocked her to her very core. 

Hermione pulled back slightly, blinking, trying to get an honest look at her husband for what felt like the very first time. She took in the stained burp cloth slung over his shoulder again, his mussed hair, and then his pale eyes. Not a even a drop of malice or malevolence filled their depths. They were kind eyes. Honest eyes. Gentle eyes. 

The kind of eyes she could fall in love with. 

Was she wrong—had she been wrong this whole time about the kind of person Draco Malfoy was? Her previous visions of her husband crumbled at her feet, and soon she was left with an overwhelming feeling that could only be one thing. 

“I love you, Draco,” she murmured in his ear. “I love you and our boys so, so much.” 

And when Draco’s eyes searched her own, she knew wholeheartedly that he loved her, too. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just one chapter to go. 
> 
> Please let me know what you think!


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Having built a family, Hermione's mission begins to fade away in her mind.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> GracefulLioness and MsMerlin are the Alphas and friends that made this fic into what it is. 
> 
> Many of you asked for a happy ending. 
> 
> We'll see. 
> 
> Based on a dark interpretation of Samson and Delilah. Grateful to TheMourning Madam for running this fest!

Hermione tiptoed down the carpeted hallways of the cottage toward Micah and Matthew’s shared bedroom. Pushing the door open, she peeked inside to glimpse her sons. They had outgrown their cots quite a while ago and now slept in a sturdy set of bunk beds. The goal had been to get them used to sleeping apart, even if just by a few feet. They had always been completely joined at the hip, climbing into each other’s cots in the middle of the night. She and Draco hoped to foster a greater sense of independence with this purchase. 

But as Hermione watched her sons sleep, she couldn’t help the slight upturn of her lips as she noticed that, once again, they were cuddled together on the bottom bunk.

Those two were inseparable. 

It had taken Hermione a while longer than expected to tell the two apart after her nearly four catatonic months following their birth. She did her best to pull her weight as a new parent, changing nappies, midnight feedings, rocking them when they screamed… she stepped into her role with gusto. Draco was there to guide her through it all, showing her the ropes of parenthood with patience and understanding. 

And it all started with telling them apart. 

“Matthew’s got that birthmark on his wrist,” Draco had explained to her one day as they kneeled in front of the infants, lying on a blanket in their nappies. “And Micah has one just behind his ear.” Hermione had examined their sons to confirm his descriptions, manipulating their tiny bodies in her careful hands. “And just in case,” added Draco, lifting one leg on each boy, “I charmed their names to appear on the bottom of their foot when I tap it with my wand.” 

Four years later, she now liked to think she could tell her boys apart easily. Though they looked nearly identical with their matching blond curls and cheeky grins, Hermione trusted herself to know who was who. Micah was the louder twin, and was constantly bouncing about. He had a love of music, and loved to annoy his father by singing incessantly. Matthew, on the other hand, was clearly introverted. He much preferred to sit with a book splayed in his lap. 

She and Draco doted on both boys, but Draco especially was far more likely to give into their whims and demands. And Micah and Matthew loved him dearly. She saw it on their little faces every time he arrived home from his meetings. They always rushed at him with cries of, “Daddy!” and he scooped them both into his arms, planting kisses on their cheeks. 

They'd often ask questions about where he'd been and what he'd done that kept him away for so long. Their inquisitive little minds swirling with ideas of what kept their beloved dad away.

“Is Daddy a dragon trainer?” Micah pressed once as they ate ham sandwiches for lunch.

“Of course not,” Hermione tutted. “Now eat your sandwich.” 

Draco, still cautious about disclosing too much—especially to their sons, always avoided answering. "Oh, I've just been at work. Doing a bit of this and that."

Micah didn’t accept this answer, and was still quite convinced that his dad was a dragon trainer.

Neither parent spent too much time discouraging the notion, because that would only lead to more questions, which would undoubtedly get harder and harder to answer

But Hermione knew the truth—even after all these years, she always knew. 

~*~*~*~

In the sweetness of her newfound motherhood, Hermione found that the mission gradually faded from her mind. Life with Micah and Matthew was all-consuming, and she busied herself with being the best mummy to them that she could be. 

By all accounts, the two boys were very happy. They loved to play outside in the garden and loved to cuddle with their parents even more. On the rare occasion that Hermione stopped to consider how they were brought into the world, her only thought now was that she wished they had been conceived under genuine circumstances. 

Whether it was some sort of charm, she didn’t know, but life as Hermione Granger-Malfoy was somehow turning out to be more fulfilling than any mission had ever made her feel. In this charming cottage life, there was no war. There were no deaths. 

Here, there was only life, simple and undeniably beautiful. 

There was something to be said about those sorts of certainties. In this life she had crafted with Draco, she knew that each morning she would be woken shortly after sunrise to the feeling of two tiny bodies crawling beside her in bed. 

She knew that Draco always took porridge with nuts and berries in the morning before busying himself in the garden or reading by the fire. 

She knew that her boys were safe when they played in the park near the cottage, or when they took a family stroll to the village to go to the market. 

She knew that after they had scrubbed and tubbed their sons and tucked them into bed, she and Draco enjoyed many evenings to themselves. They never seemed to tire of each other’s bodies. Certainly, Hermione never tired of Draco’s. 

Lying beside him at night, nestled into his side, she listened to his breathing even out. The rhythm of his breath was like the rhythm of their life: deep, sweet, and blessedly predictable. 

Hermione, long having let go of her self-loathing, had grown to take comfort in the domesticity of her new life. Draco was an incredible father and her infinite love for her sons grew more and more with each passing day. 

It was a near-perfect existence. The war never came up. Hermione didn’t dwell on it any longer. The objective of her mission lay dormant in the back of her mind and her contact with Kingsley or any of her old friends was so scarce that sometimes, she wondered if they even knew if she was still alive or if they even cared. 

She was content with her little life here. 

Until. 

It was a pleasant midsummer night—the kind when the sky seems to fade to black so very slowly. Crickets chirped from beyond the garden, and from her vantage point at the kitchen sink, she could listen to them clearly, like a simple lullaby to end her day. 

Hermione had managed to put Micah and Matthew to bed a short time ago, much to their protestations. When she was certain they were out for the night, she got to work on the dinner dishes while she waited for Draco to arrive home. He had been due over two hours ago and had yet to return. 

He likely had been at a meeting. The very thought of her husband standing amongst Death Eaters used to send chills down her spine. Now, it merely made her sigh and look at her watch. 

She’d have to keep his dinner under a stasis charm. 

The time ticked by, and Hermione began to count the chimes on the wall clock in the kitchen. 

Ten o’clock.

Eleven o’clock. 

At quarter-til midnight, she heard the distinct ‘pop’ of Apparation just outside their front door that marked her husband’s arrival. Usually, he came in and hung up his traveling cloak before trekking to the kitchen and kissing her soundly on the mouth. 

Even though Hermione heard the front door open and close, she never got to hear the rustling sound of heavy cloth or the tap of Draco’s feet on the wooden floor. 

Instead, she heard a _thunk_ and a muffled cry. 

Abandoning the soapy pan she was currently scrubbing, Hermione raced through the house haphazardly, wand gripped in her hand. She may have been removed from the war, but the war had never truly been removed from her—those instincts remained intact. As she tore past the sitting room toward the front door, all sorts of horrible possibilities flashed in her mind. Was Draco injured? Was that even Draco by the door? Or had their Fidelius charm somehow failed them? 

Hermione skidded to a halt ten feet in front of the door, casting _“Lumos,”_ as quickly as she could. 

There, lying on his side, was Draco. He was clutching his torso, and Hermione could tell that he was in a bad way. Bruises covered the side of his face she could see, and she didn’t recognize the rhythm of his breathing. It was no longer steady, but ragged instead. 

Sinking to her knees, Hermione did her best to steady her pounding heart. She lowered her face to his temple and pressed a kiss there. 

“You’re going to be alright, sweetheart. Just hang on.” 

Summoning her healing kit, she got to work from the second the ingredients flew into her hands. She uncorked vials and poured their contents down his throat; after vanishing his outer layer of clothing, she rubbed salves and pastes into his battered skin. Thankfully, one of the potions she had given him was a sedative, and he passed out before he could react to the more painful healing processes. Hermione worked meticulously. Not once did her hands shake or her confidence waver. Those same instincts she had developed fighting in a war for seven years hadn’t faded. 

They had only laid dormant. 

After a few minutes of fussing, Hermione managed to levitate her unconscious husband up to their bedroom and into bed. She changed him into pyjamas and sat at his side, gently brushing stray strands of hair away from his forehead. Sleep, which usually eluded her anyway, stayed far away from her tonight as she kept watch over his sleeping form. 

By the time he came to, it was nearly two in the morning. He twitched a few times before inhaling deeply and mumbling, “Hermione? Where—am I home?”

“Yes, Draco. You’re home. You’re all right. I’ve healed you.” 

Draco sighed and leaned back into his pillows. “Thank Merlin.” 

Reaching out to grasp his hand in her own, Hermione stroked his knuckles with her thumb. “What happened?” She asked the question without really thinking. Those were the sorts of questions he never answered—the sort she never asked. 

“I upset him,” Draco croaked, breathing through his mouth. “I botched—I was seen.” 

From somewhere in the recesses of her mind a spark ignited. 

_“Gain his trust. Find the source of his power. Destroy it. And him if you must.”_

Hermione swallowed. It wouldn’t hurt to keep him talking, would it? 

“What did you botch up? What were you seen doing?” 

Draco winced and answered vaguely. “My job.”

“Yes, but what _is_ your job? What on earth were you supposed to do that warranted _this_ reaction?” She gestured to his injuries.

Never before had she been so direct. It had always been a sort of unspoken agreement, ever since their first encounter in the pub almost six years ago: don’t ask about each other’s role in the war. But now, Hermione felt the sudden urge to throw that agreement out the window. 

Draco sighed and ran a hand through his limp hair. “You _know_ I can’t tell you that.” 

“Yes, but you know I haven’t… I haven’t been doing my work for years.”

“Still…” 

“Still what?” Hermione bit. “I’m your _wife_. Who else can you trust more than me?”

“I _do_ trust you,” blurted Draco. “But if he found out that I told someone, let alone _you_ , we’d all be in danger.” 

“Then _leave_ ,” she begged. “We already live in the middle of the countryside. What would be so different about this countryside and the countryside in France or Germany or any other place?”

Draco slammed his eyes shut, pinching the bridge of his nose between his thumb and forefinger. 

“It’s not that simple, Hermione. I can’t just up and leave”

“Why not?” 

“Because he’ll find us. He’ll know.” 

“But we can run. We can take the boys and start a new life.” 

Draco sat up, his back hunched over as his elbows rested on his knees. He scrubbed both hands over his face. Hermione could tell that he was trying to remain calm—trying to keep it together, but the way his breath shuddered as he frowned told her one thing: he was not even going to consider her idea. 

“Hermione—”

“Don’t _Hermione_ me. Enough is enough. Either you’re going to put your family first or you’re not.”

“But I _am_ putting you first.” 

Hermione jumped to her feet beside the bed, anger coursing through her body. 

“As long as you work for him, doing his bidding, harming others, that can’t be true. What are Matthew and Micah going to think as they get older and figure out what their daddy does? Because they _will_ figure it out.” 

Hermione wasn’t entirely sure where all these accusations were stemming from. She hadn’t said things like this— _thought_ things like this about Draco in years. His Dark Mark had simply become a part of his skin, almost like a birthmark; their quiet life was simply a choice they had made. 

But it wasn’t. Those were all lies she had been telling herself. 

She stared at Draco, her eyes boring into his. In their grey depths she could see anger bubbling, but fear as well—terror even.. 

“ _Why_ , Draco?” Hermione pressed, kneeling beside the bed. “ _Why_ can’t you leave? And give me a real answer this time.”

A rush of air left Draco’s lungs as he hung his head. From her kneeling position, Hermione could see him screw up his face. When he spoke, the words came out in a strained whisper. “I can’t leave because I’m in his debt.” 

“In his debt?” Hermione questioned. “How?” 

Draco seemed to be at war with himself with each word that tumbled from his lips. He kept his eyes down while his hands fidgeted. 

“Years ago, I… I wasn’t powerful like I am now. I was weak and a coward. The Dark Lord saw this and kept me in the background. But a couple years before we… reconnected… I managed to impress him, and he started entrusting me with more and more responsibilities. When my old hawthorn wand snapped, I was a valuable enough asset that he provided me with a new one.” 

From his bedside table, he picked up the wand. It was an innocent enough looking wand, slightly shorter and thicker than hers, with runes carved up the sides. She had seen it countless times throughout their nearly seven years together and had never once stopped to consider that it wasn’t the same old hawthorn wand he had once used back in school. 

“It was designed specifically for me,” Draco explained, rolling it between his fingers. “It was designed to harness my natural magical abilities and amplify them. Any spell I cast with this is three or four times more powerful than it would be if I cast it with anyone else’s wand—even my old one. And was designed specifically with—with dark magic in mind.” 

It was like a dam within Draco had burst forth, and all the things he had kept from her for years came spilling out. He seemed like a shell of himself—brittle and broken in both body and spirit. “When I first received the wand, I was grateful. Suddenly I had become more powerful—more deadly—more destructive than I had ever conceived of myself before. I wielded that wand with my ego rather than my good judgement, and it earned me a reputation—a reputation I still rely on today.” 

Draco no longer stared down at the wand, but up at the wall opposite their bed. Though really, he seemed quite far away, his eyes glassy and unfocused. 

“I’ve done horrible things with this wand, Hermione. Unspeakable things. But I can’t give it up. I can’t. If I do, he’ll know. He’ll find me—find us—and make me pay for my betrayal. So you see, I have to carry on. It’s the only way.” 

As Hermione looked at her husband, she expected to see the man whom she had grown to believe was good and kind. She expected to see the man who had been at her side through a difficult pregnancy and a hellish postpartum—the man who had been the sweetest father to their sons and who could still make her swoon with a single lift of his eyebrow. 

But all she saw now was a man too cowardly to give up murder for the sake of his family. 

Hermione watched him continue to twist his wand between his fingers. 

He had used that wand to do terrible things. Hurt innocent people—killed them. But knowing that he had cast the enchantments that protected their home with that same wand was too much. He’d used that wand to create memories for their children, build snowmen on cold winter days, and worse, _on_ their children, repairing skinned knees and mending clothing. And it was _that_ thought that sent a wave of horror swelling within her.

She was married to a murderer. She had conceived children with a murderer. 

As this sunk in—the realisation that this man she thought she knew was _not_ the same as her mind perceived, she couldn’t help but wonder if he had he ever killed mothers? Fathers? _Children?_

Ice flooded Hermione’s veins as she watched her husband continue to stare off into nothingness. Where there had once been the warmth of love, a barren landscape had suddenly swept through, stripping her heart bare. 

How had she been so foolish? How had she allowed herself to believe that he was a good man? That he had changed? 

No, Draco Malfoy hadn’t changed at all. He was just the same, cowardly boy he had always been. 

All at once, clarity flooded the parts of her brain that had been muddled by affection for so long. 

Kingsley had told her that Draco had an unknown source of power that made him unbeatable. 

This was it. 

She had the information she needed. 

She had done it. 

She had made Draco vulnerable enough to confess. 

Now came the crossroads. 

Hermione could have easily sent an encrypted owl to Kingsley and kept up what now felt like a sham of a marriage. That would have been the path of least resistance. But looking at Draco now, she didn’t know if she could even bear to sleep by his side. Even looking at him now caused a horrible pit to grow in her stomach. 

Before she could determine her path forward, Draco turned back to face her. 

His eyes looked far more haunted than she had ever seen them before. He reached out for a moment, as though he wanted to caress her cheek, but pulled back at the last moment, as though reconsidering. When he spoke, his voice shook. 

“Gods, Hermione. I’m so sorry I ever dragged you into this.” His eyes began to fill with tears, but he fought through them. “You and the boys—you’re my whole world. I don’t give a damn about power or the war or even the bloody Dark Lord. It’s ripping me in two, the things I’ve done. I can’t even speak about it. Not to anyone. But I can’t stop. He’ll never stop looking for me if I walk away now. I’m indebted to him for my wand. I took a wizard’s vow to serve him for all my days.” 

She should have been moved. Her heart should have thumped back to life in her chest at his vulnerability. She should have felt love coursing through her veins as he looked at her with a sadness so tangible she could feel it caress the tendrils of her heart. 

Hermione wasn’t sure what she felt. She needed time—space to mull things over. Steeling her stomach and schooling her expression, she took extra care to ensure that Draco didn’t feel her hatred or worse, her hesitation. 

“Oh, Draco,” she simpered after a moment, reaching forward and smoothing the locks of hair that had fallen into his face. “You’ve given so much of your heart to me. We’ve all made mistakes—all done things we regret in this war. What matters is that you’re safe—that we’re all safe together.” Hermione forced the last words from her lips. “And I-I trust you. With me. With Micah and Matthew. With our lives. If you say this is the path forward, then my path is clear as well.” 

The corners of Draco’s mouth twitched, and Hermione suddenly noticed that he seemed quite small in his exhaustion. 

“You should get some rest, darling,” she said softly. “You’ll feel better in the morning. We can figure this out then.” 

Draco nodded absently, fatigue clearly claiming him rapidly. Hermione took hold of his wand between her thumb and forefinger, placing it gingerly on the bedside table. She then guided him gently toward the mattress and pulled their blankets up to his chin. 

“Hermione?” he yawned as she waved her wand to turn out the light. 

“Yes?”

“Love you.” 

Hermione paused, opening her mouth. But before she could respond, all the worry lines on his face faded as he drifted into slumber. For a moment, he looked like the sweet husband she had grown to love, and her heart stuttered with the painful reminder that that man did not exist at all, but rather, was a figment of her imagination. 

And then her eyes found his wand. 

Her choice was clear.

~*~*~*~

Hermione sat on a precipice, teetering on the verge of inevitability. 

In the past, knowledge had always been a blessing. It was the thing upon which she most relied—steadfast, ever-expanding, and true. Knowledge had always guided all her decision making: the more well-informed she was, the better prepared she felt to make choices about her life and about the war. 

But for the first time in her life, knowledge felt like a curse. 

She had always been inching toward this moment, even during the long stretches when she forgot that this decision was destined to happen. Hermione stared at her husband as he breathed gently through his nose, sleep having captured him not long ago. This was the man she had grown close to for all these years. 

She’d loved him— _hadn’t she?_

It all felt so murky now. 

Had what she felt for him ever truly been love? Her mind flicked back to so many moments they had shared. There had been moments filled with passion, with sorrow, and with strong affection for the children they had created. 

Each moment had felt real at the time, but looking back through the cracked lens of this new knowledge, it all felt tainted or fraudulent, as though the life they had built together was making a mockery of a real life she could have lived with someone better. Someone who wasn’t a murderer. 

The longer she stared at Draco, the more she felt vitriol bubble in her stomach and spread across every inch of her skin until the very hairs on her head seemed to stand on end. 

Swiping his wand off the nightstand, she eyed it with disdain, holding it in her open palm. This wand that had done so much wrong in the world sat heavy in her grasp like the whispering evil of the horcruxes she had helped destroy so many years ago. It was the object that poisoned everything. 

_“Muffliato,”_ she whispered, ensuring Draco wouldn’t wake up. 

Hermione’s grip on her own wand tightened as she levitated the destructive wand—the source of Draco’s mysterious surge in power—before her eyes. It hung menacingly in her line of sight, and she knew instantly what she had to do. 

Years ago, Kingsley had instructed her to destroy the source of Draco Malfoy’s power, and that was exactly what she was going to do. Pointing her wand at the object, she whispered the spell fiercely. 

_“Confringo.”_

The wand splintered into a thousand little pieces, scattering across the bedroom in brief, brilliant flames that were snuffed out by the time the remnants of the wand floated to the ground. All that remained was the lingering smell of smoke, traveling through the air with a sinister curl. 

Draco continued to breathe steadily, completely unaware of Hermione’s actions mere feet away. 

The night air seemed lighter now, somehow. Clearer. Hermione could hear crickets chirping out in the garden through the darkness. 

The overwhelming tide of _‘what now?’_ crashed in her as she stood in the dark, teetering on the edge of many possibilities. But as she looked down at Draco’s sleeping form, she could no longer ignore the twist of disgust spreading through her gut at the thought of all the unspeakable things he had done. And the fact that he had no intentions of stopping made it even worse. 

But still, even as the flicker of abhorrence grew inside of her, it couldn’t completely douse the years they spent together…. The care he had shown for their sons when she, herself, could not. He wasn’t an evil person. She learned that long ago. But his actions… she couldn’t just leave him to go crawling back to Voldemort without that wand. 

He’d likely be killed right on the spot, and the thought filled her with such dread that her visibly body shook. 

No, there had to be a better way. 

Hermione couldn’t bring herself to stay with Draco, but she couldn’t just leave him either. 

And then it struck her. Such a simple solution. 

One she had used before. 

She looked down at the man who had been her husband for the last time. He slept on, his forehead unmarred by wrinkles or lines. These would be his last moments as Draco Malfoy, and he didn’t even realize it. 

Hermione pointed her wand directly at him, focusing on exactly what she needed him to forget. 

She needed him to forget that he served Voldemort. 

She needed him to forget that he was married. 

But more, he would forget his children. 

He would forget magic. 

Hermione kept her breathing steady. She’d done this before, to the two people she cared for most—more than she ever cared for him, anyway. Yes, this was for the best. 

_“Obliviate.”_

Draco turned in his sleep, smacking his lips. When he woke, he would no longer be Draco Malfoy. He’d be David Malley. A Muggle. 

A Muggle who had the sudden desire to move far, far away.

Where he would go or what he would do was no longer her concern. 

He was, after all, only the _asset._

She didn’t love him. She hadn’t ever truly loved him. Hermione could see that now. Maybe, just maybe, she had simply loved the _idea_ of loving someone. 

Hermione slipped from their bedroom one last time, taking care to close the door as silently as she could manage on her way. Tiptoeing through the house, she erased all evidence that David Malley ever had a family. Everything either vanished or tucked into her beaded back, Hermione down the upstairs hallway. She entered the twins’ room to find them still curled up together on the bottom bunk of their bed. 

Hermione opened her beaded bag and walked to their closet, where she began to pull clothing from hangers and drawers. She stashed few favourite toys and books as well for good measure. Satisfied, Hermione crossed the room and knelt at their bedside and set the bag down on the carpet. 

She had to have courage.

“Darlings,” she whispered, stretching her arms out to brush their curls from their eyes. “Darlings, I need you to wake up.” 

The boys scrunched their eyes, stretching their little torsos and arms as they rose from slumber. Their sweet, drowsy, eyes blinked, revealing chocolate irises dulled by sleep and confusion. 

“Mummy?” groaned Matthew. “Is it morning?” 

“No, darlings. It’s not yet.” 

“Why are we awake, Mummy?” Micah asked, rubbing his eyes with his little fists. 

Hermione cleared her throat, biting back tears that appeared from nowhere, threatening to fall. But she couldn’t betray the true situation to the boys. They were too little to understand...

“We’re going on a trip.” She forced a smile on her face as she stood. “Isn’t that exciting?”

“Where are we going, Mummy?” Micah asked, his eyes much brighter.

“It’s a surprise.” Hermione said with the best grin she could muster. “So let’s get dressed quickly so we can leave.” 

“Is Daddy coming?” piped up Matthew.

Hermione grimaced. “He’ll be along a little later.”

Both boys seemed to accept this answer and scrambled off the bottom bunk, pulling on the clothing Hermione offered them. They had been working on dressing themselves, and Hermione stood back as they yanked shirts over their heads. 

She wanted to do it while their backs were turned. It would be more seamless. Pulling her wand out, she pointed it at her sons, who were busy figuring out how to push their arms through their sleeves. 

_“Obliviate.”_

Hermione didn’t erase most of their memories. Just Draco. Just their father. From now on, they simply wouldn’t have one. 

They would be hers. _Just hers_. Micah and Matthew Granger. 

The boys finished pulling their trousers up and turned to face her. Their little faces held no trace of confusion. Instead, they looked up eagerly. 

“Mummy, we’re ready.” 

“Holiday!” 

Hermione held out her hands to her sons, and they each grabbed one, their tiny hands gripped entirely in her palms. 

“Where are we going, Mummy?” asked Matthew as Hermione began to focus on their destination. 

“We’re going to meet some people who are very special to Mummy. People Mummy hasn’t seen in a long, long time.” 

Matthew nodded, seeming to accept the answer, but Micah looked up at her, concern filling the piercing grey eyes he inherited from the man who was once his father. “Mummy, is everything okay?”

She looked down at him, forcing a smile on her face. “Of course, my darling. After all, we’re about to go on an adventure.” 

With a wave of her wand, she and the boys disappeared into the night, leaving only the spectre of their old life floating in the moonlight.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ...well, I hope you weren't expecting a happy ending. 
> 
> (don't kill me) 
> 
> Please let me know your thoughts in the comments.

**Author's Note:**

> I told you that you might not like Hermione. 
> 
> I will update once a week. 
> 
> Let me know your thoughts!
> 
> Come follow me on tumblr @ biscuitsforpotter


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